


Fishsticks

by Kaitou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cats, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Light-Hearted, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaitou/pseuds/Kaitou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John was five he got himself a cat.  Harry notices a resemblance to a certain consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fishsticks

At the time inviting himself along on John's luncheon with his sister had seemed like a good idea, or at least a way to stave off boredom and give him a larger sample size of Watsons to draw conclusions from.

Now, however, his reasoning seemed less sound. Harry Watson laughed like a braying mule into her drink, (A diet cola, chosen on her own, surely as a peace offering to John) Her hair, the roots slightly darker than John's dirty blond, was bleached an unflattering straw color and chemically induced into buoyant curls.

The makeup was an expensive brand, effective at disguising the reddened cheeks and nose of a habitual drunk had it not been so sloppily applied at the crease of the nostril. Had she applied it with a bit more care not even Sherlock would have noticed. Of course, there were a multitude of other clues that served just as well.

The waitress came out with their food and set a plate in front of Sherlock as well. "I didn't order anything."

John took a sip of his water and unfolded a paper napkin over his lap. "No, I ordered for you while you were distracted analyzing the family at the cash register."

"Family of pick pockets all of them, the seven year old included. At any rate, I have no intention of eating."

John pointed with his fork. "You're not on a case, so you can't use that excuse. You need to eat. I'd rather not have to give you vitamin shots _again_."

He poked at the food with a fork, swimming in an unidentified brown sauce. "I have no objections to food. I simply doubt that this _is_ food."

Suddenly Harry began to laugh, long and hard. Both men turned to look at her, but she just waved a hand in front of her face. "I'm sorry, I just…" She dissolved into laughter again. "It's just… the look on your face! It just reminded me of Fishsticks."

"Fishsticks."

John's voice was muffled from burying his face in his hands. "It was our cat."

"Fishsticks." Under normal circumstances Sherlock couldn't bear repetition, but this certainly seemed to call for it.

"Mum named it."

"No she didn't, that was all you Johnny." Harry gave him a wicked grin and tipped her diet cola at him in a triumphant gesture, the ice rattled in counterpoint.

John gave him a look, the type that pleaded for backup. Unfortunately all the evidence was stacked against him, and Sherlock only shook his head. John hunched his shoulders and sighed. "All right, all right. I named him. But I was _five_."

Harry ruffled his hair, which John submitted to with only a twitch. "Ickle Johnny and his Moggie,"

She turned to Sherlock, "There was this mangy cat that hung out in the neighborhood. All the kids were terrified of it, you'd cross to the other side of the road to get away. But Johnny wanted a pet, God love him. So he laid a trail of fish fingers to lure him in. I'm still amazed Dad let him keep it. But then again I suppose he was as afraid of Fishsticks as everyone else was."

Sherlock pulled a face. "So this cat that you've compared me to is a stray."

"Oh half feral at the very best."

Sherlock's frown deepened further and Harry laughed again. "God, it's the exact same expression. It's almost enough to make me believe in reincarnation, but of course the dates wouldn't match up. Isn't it the same, John?"

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, at Sherlock's blatant 'don't you dare' expression. And then he broke into his ridiculous giggle. "Yeah, a bit."

"I'm so glad you find this amusing."

"Remember that time that Fishsticks puked in Mum's shoes?"

"Ha! That was classic, yeah." John used a chip to soak up a bit of brown glaze and explained to Sherlock, "The cat was a bit of a possessive bastard. Didn't like it when I started going to school all day."

"He didn't care about _me_ being in school all day," Harry pouted artificially, "Of course, that's because I didn't cry when I had to go. And of course, Fishsticks blamed Mum for taking John away. Hence the cat-puke."

It was fascinating to see the tips of John's ears flush that brightly.

"And he yowled at all hours of the night," she added.

John snorted. "At least he didn't keep breaking into your bedroom in the middle of the night. It didn't matter if I shut the door or not. He'd get in somehow and wake me up, smack me in the face, walk all over my bladder, that sort of thing. And I swear it was never because he needed food, or wanted to be let out, he was just bored." John broke off and blinked. "Actually, that _is_ a bit like you."

Harry's eyebrows climbed skyward. "He breaks into your bedroom in the middle of the night? You have been holding out on me. C'mon now, share with the class!"

Sherlock folded his arms in front of him and scowled at the same time that John spluttered, "Not like _that_! Seriously, Harry, get your mind out of the gutter."

Harry shrugged and ate a few bites of a limp green vegetable, boiled out of all nutrient value or identifiability. "Dull, dull, dull. Honestly, Sherlock, I don't know how you put up with him."

Sherlock opened his mouth, the unfamiliar urge to defend welling up inside him. He didn't know what he planned to say, but before he could even begin John smiled his crooked, self-depreciating smile. "I'm a good excuse for a skull, apparently."

"Ugh. A skull? Gross." Harry stuck out her tongue. "Actually, that reminds me of Fishsticks bringing home those 'presents.' He'd always leave rats and birds on my bed. Only sign of affection that cat gave anyone besides John."

"That's not affection."

They both turned to look at Sherlock. "It wasn't?"

"Common misconception. Bringing home dead prey is how predators generally teach their young to hunt. Introducing them to the concept, as it were," he told them. "Basically speaking, your cat didn't trust you to be a competent hunter and thought that it ought to train you."

They both stared at him. "What?"

"You don't know the solar system, but you know about this?"

"An animal's predatory behavior is useful!"

Harry put both hands flat on the table. "Wait, you're saying that Fishsticks put dead squirrels in my bed because he thought I was too stupid to feed myself?"

Sherlock inclined his head regally.

"Fishsticks thought _I_ was stupid!?"

John looked thoughtful. "You know, Sherlock, that's not so different from how you-"

"Don't even start."

"Just saying, mate."

Sherlock slouched further into his seat. Bringing home a severed head was completely different. It's not as if he did it for John's sake.

"Don't sulk. And for heaven's sake eat your lunch. You haven't had a bite. I ordered the roast for you. You like roast beef."

"You're not my mother."

"No, I'm your doctor. Eat."

Sherlock sighed. "I assume he has always been this annoying?" he asked Harry.

"Lord, yes. Of course, we thought he was going to be a veterinarian, not a doctor. Made us watch all the reruns of 'All Creatures Great and Small.' And John was the only person who could deal with Fishsticks." Harry held up her hand, showing off the thin white scar that ran down the back of her thumb that Holmes had noticed the first time he saw her. "He gave me this when we tried to get him to the vet. And you should have seen what he did to him! In the end he just walked John through what to do. We all thought he had some kind of special gift with animals. But it turns out he's actually rubbish with everything else. It was just that he was the only one Fishsticks would tolerate."

Sherlock didn't eat, but he began to mash his peas into a smooth paste with his fork. It was one thing to be called a psychopath by Anderson, or a freak by Donovan. It was something else altogether for John and his sister to compare him to a vicious, bad tempered cat that apparently no one cared for. He didn't know why it was different, but it was. That only added another layer of confusion. The difference between these things should only be a mere point of interest, something to be analyzed. But he couldn't bring himself to do so.

"It's a wonder you didn't simply stick it in a bag and throw it in the Thames," he spit out.

Harry's mouth dropped open in shock. "Jesus, no! What's wrong with you?"

"From your statements, the cat was violent, poorly socialized, provided no comfort and caused you nothing but trouble."

"It wasn't Fishsticks's fault he was a bastard. And you can't just get rid of a living thing because it's not as cuddly as you want. Besides," she continued with a softer expression, "it would have broken little Johnny's heart.

"Harry." John's ears were starting to pink up again.

Harry leaned forward, both hands wrapped around her drink. "Fishsticks wasn't a young cat when John took him in, and he lived another nine years. When we finally had to put him down it absolutely gutted John."

Now John was the one sinking into his seat. "Harry..."

"Cried for a week, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep... He barely said a word. John _loved_ that cat."

John traced a swirl of gravy with his fork. "He was a good cat," he said simply. Simply, softly, and with utter conviction. How very like John.

Sherlock ate his roast.

 

~~~~~~

 

When they got back to the flat John put on the kettle while Sherlock folded himself up like an origami bird on the sofa with his laptop. He poked his head out into the sitting room and called, "Care for a cuppa? Or maybe a saucer of cream?"

Sherlock glared. "I think I prefer those YouTube videos of yours to your idea of wit."

"I could open up a tin of tuna."

The problem with John, with most people honestly, was that once they thought they were funny they continued to harp on it until every electron of humor had been split from the atom of the joke. Assuming that there was anything humorous to begin with, which in this case there wasn't.

After the kettle began to whistle John came back out with two mugs, PG Tips tags dangling over the rims. Mrs. Hudson at least used proper tea leaves, but John couldn't be broken of the habit. Still, he took the mug from John when he offers it

John settled into his chair, Union Jack pillow supporting the small of his back with a sigh. Distressingly domestic. He sipped at his tea absently, and stared off into the middle distance. Sherlock gave up on the prospect of any meaningful conversation and pulled up the obituaries section from the Times and the Guardian from his favorites for cross referencing.

But after awhile John said, "Thank you, by the way, for coming to dinner."

"Hm?"

John smiled slightly. "Oh, I know you didn't do it for my sake exactly, but..." John rubbed his knee in a vestigial gesture against a phantom pain. "Harry and I try, but whenever we get together one thing leads to another and it all ends in shouting and tears and we go off to lick our wounds. Comments on a blog are as close as we've gotten in years.

"But instead of the old same old fights, it was all laughs and cat stories. I know you don't like being teased, but, well, thank you."

Sherlock found himself staring into the glow of the monitor without really seeing the text, unable to formulate a response.

John drained the last of his tea and stood. "Well, I'm off to bed."

As he walked by he reached out and patted Sherlock on the head. Just a faint, quick touch. "Good kitty," he said and disappeared up the stairs.

Sherlock knew he ought to be profoundly irritated.

He wasn't.


End file.
